"[a] starry debut recital, from 1988, introduced Bartoli's Italianate mezzo - her technique and accurate coloratura mingled with earthy, sweet-sour tone." — BBC Music Magazine

Here in Orange, France, on a windswept, night in 1974, they had greatness itself. Pierre Jourdan's film of the event is a priceless document, first of all, in the history of the opera. Stage-settings of Norma are usually hopeless: an offence to the eye, a chafing confutation of the spirit by gross matter. The ancient Roman amphitheatre is at any rate worthy and appropriate, and the Mistral, which threatened to close down the whole show and turn away an audience estimated at 10,000, adds a fine reminder of the power of Nature as it sets the druidical robes billowing and attacks the microphones.

How this opera grows in the affections. And how it strengthens the larger, ever-deepening appreciation not merely of Donizetti's work but of operatic conventions as such. I mean that the frequently derided forms of opera (the set pieces, aria-and-cabaletta and so forth) can increasingly be a source of pleasure and of perceived power in the writing. Here, for instance, part of the exhilaration arises out of the composer's skill in suiting the conventions to his dramatic and musical purposes. Elizabeth's first aria, meditatively hopeful yet anxious, fits the lyric-cantabile form; then the arrival of Talbot and Cecil with their opposing influences provokes the intensified turbulence of irresolution that makes dramatic sense out of the cabaletta. It is so with the duets and ensembles: they look like conventional set-pieces, but established form and specific material have been so well fitted that, with the musical inspiration working strongly (as it is here), you have opera not in its naive stage awaiting development towards freedom from form but, on the contrary, opera at the confident height of a period in its history when it was entirely true to itself.

An all-star cast, led by Luciano Pavarotti at the height of his fame in one of his most celebrated roles. Joined by Katia Ricciarelli (Amelia), Judith Blegen (Oscar), Bianca Berini (Ulrica) and Louis Quilico (Renato). Conducted by Giuseppe Patane. This was an eye-catching and thought-provkoing production. Moshinsky staged the action in pre-revolutionary 1774 Boston.

Cecilia Bartoli made this recording when she was still in her early 20s, a mezzo with a rich, vibrant voice who not only copes brilliantly with the technical demands but who also gives a winningly provocative characterization. Like the conductor, Bartoli is wonderful at bringing out the fun.

Montserrat Caballé as Leonora is precisely what one would hope for. The voice is in near-pristine shape–the occasional attack on a loud high note early on can be vicious, but she sings with unusual commitment (not that the role has many nuances), glorious tone, and her entire arsenal of tricks: long-breathed phrases, diminuendos, high, floated pianissimo, grand chest voice. She even sings most of the words, rarely relying on “ah” sounds for high notes. The sound is huge and major-league and her comportment–acting is the wrong word–is regal. She sings the “Vergine degli angeli” with her back to the audience and the sound is as ethereal as you ever wanted it to be.

When Renata Tebaldi sang Desdemona in Verdi’s Otello at London’s Covent Garden in 1950, it was her first operatic performance outside Italy. It was also the role in which she made her last appearance on the opera stage, at the Metropolitan Opera New York in 1973. Between these two performances she made close to a hundred stage appearances as Desdemona, not to mention two studio recordings with Alberto Erede and Herbert von Karajan. It was Arturo Toscanini who coined for her the moniker “voce d’angelo” (voice of an angel). She made her highly acclaimed debut as Desdemona at the Metropolitan Opera in 1955 and from that moment on made New York the focus of her life.